The man held up an imperious hand, checking Piers in full flow. ‘Young man, you have made a mistake. Excusable, I’ll allow. You probably think I’m Godfrey. Well, I’m not. I’m his twin, Lewis. I’ve ridden post-haste from Yorkshire at my brother Pomfret’s request, to find out what’s going on. Pom’s having to travel more slowly to accommodate my sister-in-law, who’s been suffering from fits of hysterics ever since she heard the news of her precious son’s disappearance. Poor soul,’ he added perfunctorily, leaving me with the distinct impression that there was little love lost between him and Gideon’s mother. He added vaguely, ‘If you want Godfrey, he’s probably indoors somewhere or other. Maybe with Sir Francis.’ And he turned back to continue his conversation with another man.
‘How many of these damned Fitzalans are there?’ I demanded peevishly and not for the first time, as we fought our way to the main door, where two of Duchess Cicely’s guards, wearing the badge of York, challenged our right of entrance. But this was because they were bored and wanted something to do. A second glance at Piers’s green and orange Fitzalan livery and they let us through.
‘I told you,’ Piers flung over his shoulder, ‘there are a lot of them. I’d forgotten that Master Godfrey has a twin brother.’
‘Stop!’ I ordered, leaning against the wall of the passage we were traversing and refusing point-blank to go any further. Piers paused, staring at me in surprise. ‘I’m hungry and tired,’ I explained. ‘Before we go looking for anyone else, I intend visiting the kitchen to see what I can scrounge in the way of food. Then I’m going in search of the steward to find out where I’m to be housed.’
‘But we need to know if Gideon is still missing,’ my companion protested indignantly.
‘No, we don’t,’ I sighed. ‘Use your head, boy. If he had been found, his uncle would have told us so, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so,’ was the reluctant agreement. ‘Do you know where the kitchens are?’
‘I do,’ I answered simply, and led the way to the vast servants’ hall which adjoined the furnace-like hell, where most of the cooks worked stark naked because of the heat. ‘I knew this place when it was presided over by one of the biggest men you’ve ever seen. His nickname was Goliath. He’s dead now’
If Piers was impressed by my knowledge, he hid it admirably, lounging at one of the tables, a petulant expression on his handsome face, while I ventured into the kitchen in the hope of encountering a friendly face. I was fortunate and, ten minutes later, Piers and I were each tucking into a plate of broken meats left over from the sausages and pies that had been served at dinner. I was pleasantly surprised at their quality, the dowager Duchess of York being a notoriously parsimonious hostess. Even my companion, impatient as he was to get on and find Dame Copley or Godfrey Fitzalan, permitted himself to relax and enjoy his meal.
‘I was hungrier than I thought,’ he acknowledged.
‘Tell me,’ I said, emptying my mouth of a wedge of beef pie and taking a draught of ale, ‘is Gideon’s father, Sir Pomfret, the eldest of these Fitzalan brothers?’
Piers shook his head. ‘I think he’s the youngest.’
‘So he’s been knighted?’
‘Yes. After Tewkesbury, along with Sir Walter Tyrell and some others.’
I knew Sir Walter, as I did so many more, from the Scottish campaign of the previous year; a big, blond, self-confident man, son of a Suffolk gentleman and one of Duke Richard’s most loyal and devoted servants, the holder of various important offices within the duke’s gift. But Sir Pomfret Fitzalan held no place in my memory so I guessed he had taken no part in the brief war which had seen Berwick recaptured from the Scots to become an English town once again.
‘So he fought at Tewkesbury, did he? Obviously on the winning side.’
My feeble little joke fell flat, Piers firing up in instant defence of the family he served.
‘You don’t suppose any Fitzalan would fight for the Lancastrians, do you? Why, man, Henry of Lancaster was a usurper, for all he and his son and grandson called themselves kings. The true heirs of Richard II were the House of York. .’
‘All right, lad! All right! I was being funny. I hold no brief for old Gaunt’s descendants any more than you do. Look, finish your ale and we’ll go to find this Rosina Copley, and anyone else who can give us information about the tutor’s murder and young Gideon’s disappearance. Drink up! Come to think of it, we’d better discover Sir Francis’s whereabouts, too, and let him know about the happenings at Minster Lovell. I’m talking about Eleanor Blancheflower’s death. And Beelzebub’s.’
And having a somewhat jaundiced view of how a nobleman’s mind works on these occasions, I was willing to wager Sir Francis would be more upset about the dog.
Ten minutes or so later, having negotiated some of the warren of narrow corridors and twisting staircases that comprised the better part of Baynard’s Castle, I found myself yet again on the ground floor. (One was forever going upstairs only to descend once more.) Piers and I were standing outside a room at the end of a short passage whose open door gave on to the castle’s water-stairs and landing-stage. The noise of the river traffic and the shouts of the boatmen, as they plied for trade, came clearly to our ears.
Piers rapped on the door and, after a few seconds, a doleful voice bade him come in. He gave me a quick, almost furtive glance, which I was at a loss to interpret, before entering the room and announcing loudly, ‘Dame Copley, I’ve brought someone to see you.’ He stood aside and waved me in.
‘Who’s this?’
I found myself face to face with a tall, very upright woman of perhaps some forty to fifty summers, her most notable feature being a pair of fierce blue eyes which blazed on either side of a sharp, pointed nose, quivering now with suspicion and, I felt, dislike. Although how that could be when she knew nothing about me, I was uncertain. But the feeling was strong. And the thin, lined cheeks, skeletal in their lack of flesh, were rigid with tension, the narrow lips almost invisible.
‘Who’s this?’ she demanded for a second time.
Piers laid a gentle hand on the woman’s arm. ‘This is Roger Chapman, mistress. He’s been sent for by the Duke of Gloucester to look into the young master’s disappearance and the murder of Tutor Machin. He arrived at Minster Lovell while I was still there and I travelled back to London with him and Master Plummer.’
‘Master Plummer?’ The hostile scrutiny continued.
‘His Grace’s spymaster general,’ I said, giving back look for look.
In spite of all that I had been told of Dame Copley’s grief for her missing charge, of her bouts of hysteria, she seemed to me to be fully in control of her emotions. I could see no trace of redness around her eyes, no swollen eyelids, no tear-streaked cheeks. And as though suddenly conscious of this fact, the nurse turned away abruptly, pressing a handkerchief to her face. (I was impressed. Even though King Richard had introduced this article to England well over ninety or more years ago, it was still something of a rarity. Most people like me continued to use their fingers or their sleeves.)
The room was typical of the castle’s servant quarters, more like a monk’s or a nun’s cell than anything else. There was just space enough for a narrow bed and a clothes chest that also doubled as a bedside table, its curved lid entailing a careful balancing act when used for this purpose. (What, after all, did our masters and betters know of such inconveniences?) A shelf supported tinderbox and candle, and I could see what appeared to be a half-full chamber-pot pushed nearly, but not quite, out of sight beneath the bed.
Dame Copley sank down upon the chest, her eyes covered and her body shaking, while Piers crouched beside her, awkwardly patting her free hand.
‘Master Chapman will find Gideon somehow,’ he assured her. ‘That’s what he’s here for.’
I wished I could share his optimism, but there was nothing to be gained by voicing my doubts on the matter. I, too, crouched down, and although balking at actually touching the dame — there was something I found slightly repellent about her — I nevertheless said in the sort of gentle, encouraging tone I normally used for children, ‘Tell me what you know. Who was the last person to see Gideon before he disappeared?’